Return of The Eagle
by VictorianSpirit
Summary: In the overbearing heat of a hot British day Marcus and Esca retreat to the fields for a chance to prove their military prowess. - Sort of slash, depending on how you look at it :P


Heya guys, I thought I'd take a small break from my Methur _-drools-_ FanFic and do a short Escus/Marsca one instead.  
I _**love** _the song 'The Return of the Eagle' at the end credits of the film and I'd always envisioned men in a dry field practicing their fighting skills in the sun to it. So I just sort of replaced the idea of 'men' with Marcus and Esca in their days after returning the golden eagle.

I wrote and read it while listening to the song, so here's the song if you want to play it whilst reading it - http: /www. youtube. com/watch?v=U28W_TyJUhQ. (Remove the gaps) The song may finish before you've read it, or you may finish reading it before the song ends but I think it adds to the story. But read it without if you wish ^_^ Hope you enjoy!

_**-Feel free to review and request other short FanFics.**_

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Feet stirred up the dry dirt floor beneath them into sprinkling clouds of soil. Marcus Aquila swung his specialised sword in a sweeping arc, damp hair slicking off of his wet forehead in the relentless heat. Biceps clenched; legs froze, loosened and flounced; precise movements combined with swift outbreaks during the combat training that the former Roman soldier participated in. Beads of sweat travelled down the man's golden neck and trickled along his spine, moistening his white cloth shirt and clinging to the bare calves of his half clothed legs. Heat spread through his body, a slight pain in his damaged leg, but the feelings he experienced fuelled his desire to better himself. The earth gripped to his moistened, muscled body bringing back images of battle and survival. His mind filled with the fight, the loss - the calm before the storm. But all of that was behind him now… and this was all he lived for - the thrill, the ache, the honing of the mind and body… uncomplicated tranquillity.

Birds soared in the skies above the scorching wheat fields, spying the focused dark-haired Roman below them, unaware of his spectator. A handsome man watched from the coolness of a hut's shadowed archway. The sandy-haired Briton man, Esca, stepped from the safety of the hut, dragging a short-sword along behind him, leaving a fine trail in the dust path leading to the meadow. He tossed the blade skyward and caught the handle, grinning as he did so, and ran out to join his Roman companion. Long swift strides carried the Briton to Marcus in little to no time.

The two surly fighters mirrored each other's techniques, taking it in turn to showcase their talents. Esca was blessed with grace, his elegant twists and turns left patterns in the earth and his speed left even Marcus struggling to imitate his ways. The Briton was proud, a toothy smile never left his face as his bare feet reddened and became sore from the roughness of the ground and his brown tunic began to stick to him. Marcus was direct, precise and fierce, using his whole body and brute strength to construct each blow, something in which Esca lacked but made up for by other means. Marcus found this funny, strutting cockily in their few seconds of rest after his display.

Marcus swung for Esca. He ducked. The battle of the short and lithe versus the tall and mighty began. Gentle mumbles, breathless pants, sneering remarks and senseless retorts filled the air around them as the two danced with blades, like deadly performers with the ability, but not the intent, to kill one another – locked forever in an eternity of lethal but innocent war-games.

Dark brown eyes locked on sea blue, the spar having halted unexpectedly. They had both lost, but both won. Each man's blade was at the other's neck, and the feel of cold steel against their throats was intoxicatingly bloodcurdling, yet they felt no fear. This was the closest either had been to the possibility of very real death but it was the trust they felt for each other that kept them calm. They did not retract their weapons. They stayed very still, a breeze caressed Marcus' large frame and ruffled Esca's dishevelled hair. Time seemed to pause, all sounds had vanished. It was just brown on blue, steel on skin. Weapons dropped. Then it became hand on hand, chest on chest, a manly embrace - for the true heroes of Romany Britain.


End file.
